How Long?
by MTGirlForever
Summary: Steve Rogers knew Clint Barton had had a horrific childhood, but he didn't know just how bad until one night over a game of Scrabble when Clint asked a seemingly innocuous question.


"How long would you keep looking for me if I went missing?"  
"Hum?" Steve Rogers glanced up, mildly startled. He and Hawkeye had been deeply engrossed in a Scrabble game and Hawkeye's question seemed to come out of left field. Then he glanced at the board again and realized why. Hawkeye's latest word was "missing."  
He studied the archer for a few seconds, taking in the intent gaze and almost fearful look. "Till I found you or had proof beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were dead," he replied sincerely.  
Hawkeye's eyes flared wide in disbelief. He'd expected an answer of a few weeks at the most. "Why? I'm not worth that much to anybody! Why would you throw your life away to find me?"  
Sparks shot from Steve's eyes at those words and he sprang up from his chair, leaning across the table to grip Hawkeye's shoulders in an iron grip. He felt Hawkeye shudder under his grip and cower away from him slightly, but he ignored the reaction temporarily. "Listen to me, Hawkeye! Looking for a treasured friend is not throwing my life away! Somebody taught you that you were useless, an' I'm sick of it! The man in front of me is about as far from useless as anybody can get! What do I have to say or do to get that through your head?" he demanded, his voice lowering suddenly from a strained shout to a sad whisper.  
"But it's Hawkeye that people need, not Clint Barton," Hawkeye replied softly, head hanging.  
He was astonished when Steve's hand gripped his jaw and tilted his chin firmly up until he was looking Steve directly in the eye. "Captain America the soldier might need Hawkeye the archer, you're right. But Steve Rogers the man needs Clint Barton, his friend. And so do the rest of the Avengers," he added in a quiet murmur.  
Clint's eyes slipped closed so that he no longer had to meet Steve's eyes, knowing that if he looked into their compassionate depths for just a few more seconds, he'd break down. And he couldn't do that, because if he did, then Steve would know that he was just as pathetic as he tried to pretend he wasn't. But it didn't work. Steve's hand dropped from his jaw to his shoulder and squeezed gently. "Hey," he said softly. "Clint, I scared you just now when I grabbed your shoulders and I'm sorry. Fear is normal, and I absolutely think nothing less of you for it, but no man should have to feel the fear you obviously just did. I would never hurt you, Clint, but someone obviously did, and I have a feeling that same person is also the one that made you believe you were worthless. Whatever they said or did, Clint, it was a lie, and there's no sense in letting your life be ruined because of an ugly lie."  
Still refusing to meet Steve's eyes, Hawkeye gently slipped out from under his hand and turned to stare out the window overlooking the Hudson. "It was my father," he said so softly that Steve had to strain to catch the words. He spun on his heel suddenly so that he was facing Steve. "Do you want to know just how messed up I am? You might not want me around after you know," he added, half-sincerely.  
"Clint, you know that's not true," Steve replied gently.  
Clint gazed deeply into the other's man's intense eyes for a long moment before nodding slowly. "I guess I do at that." As he spoke, he slipped down to lean against the wall. Years of living in uncomfortable conditions had made him almost more uncomfortable in a chair. He grinned slightly to see Steve slide down, back against the couch, knees just touching his in a silent gesture of support.  
"You know my father was a terrible man - I told you that much after you got out of the hospital - but I sure didn't tell you everything. The only other person who knows all of this is Nat, and I'd appreciate it if it stayed that way." Steve nodded instantly, and Hawkeye continued, knowing that Steve's word was as good as his bond.  
"I was actually the son of my father's first wife. He had beaten her mercilessly and when I was about two, she ran away. For what reason I will truly never understand, she left me behind. Last I heard she was in Canada somewhere, but I never made any attempt to contact her. She deserted me when I needed her most, and I had no desire to establish a relationship with someone like that. Anyway, about six months after she left him, my father married another woman. She gave him a son, who for some reason he loved deeply. That boy could do nothing wrong, and my father spoiled him completely. On the other hand, if I happened to look at him just wrong, he'd beat me. My brother got anything he wanted - I was lucky to get enough food to survive once a day. Don't get me wrong, Steve, I don't blame my brother. On the contrary, I love him deeply - none of that was his fault, and he was young enough that he didn't even understand.  
"My mother did her best to help me. She'd sneak me food when he'd lock me up in the basement, but if he found out, he'd beat her and threaten her. He became a drunk when my brother was about two. He could be very loving to my mother when he wanted, but when he was drunk, he became absolutely vicious. He would beat her mercilessly. I'd try to stop him, to get him to take it out on me, but there was only so much I could do, Steve," Clint murmured, tears shining in his eyes as he remembered. "At six years old I vowed I would never touch the stuff just to make sure that I never did anything like that, and I haven't broken that promise to myself yet.  
"No matter what I did, I couldn't please my father. I wasn't allowed to go to school, so while my father was off getting drunk and my mother was working sixty hours a week just to keep food on the table, I would do things around the house. I even delivered newspapers starting at four in the morning in an effort to please him. I'd keep a newspaper every day and I taught myself how to read and write from that - otherwise I probably would have never had an education. But nearly every night, he'd come home drunk, drag me off the blanket he made me sleep on in the basement, grab me by the shoulders and scream at me repeatedly how worthless I was. He told me that I cost way too much to feed, and that I was nothing but a burden. When he finally got tired of that, he'd usually use me as a punching bag for his frustrations.  
"So when I was seven, I realized that I couldn't survive any longer. There was a circus in town, and I ran off to that after convincing my mother to take my brother and run away. I didn't want to be separated from them, but I knew that I could survive on my own and they could not. At first I thought the circus was everything I had always wanted and needed - everyone was kind and I was given simple jobs and plenty of food. One of the ladies even helped me with math, as that was the one thing that I had been unable to teach myself. But soon the ringmaster began to treat me almost the same as my father. I tried to run away once after I overheard him making an illegal deal, but he caught me and beat me and left me for dead, hence how I lost most of my hearing. By that point, I guess I'd come to the conclusion that this life was the best I could hope for, so I stayed with him, until the police officer recruited me to work for a SWAT team." He paused for a moment, then concluded softly, "So, Steve, that's the real Clint Barton. Still want that man for a friend?"  
His only response was dead silence, and after a few seconds he mustered enough courage to raise his head and meet Steve's eyes. He expected to see disappointment and possibly even rejection. What he saw shocked him to the core. Steve was sitting in shocked silence, tears trickling silently down his cheeks, and shaking his head. "Steve?" Clint demanded hesitantly.  
At the sound of Clint's voice, Steve immediately stretched out his hand and laid it on the archer's knee. "Clint, I'm so sorry that I don't even know what to say. I do know that any person who is strong enough to survive all of that and still turn out the way you did is one fine person who I am deeply honored to call my best friend. Can you ever forgive me for grabbing you and yelling at you?" he asked, his voice broken.  
Now it was Clint's turn to stare in shock. He had never known such loyalty and dedication and he was completely unsure of how to react. "Steve, there's nothing to forgive. There's no way you could have known, and it just means so much to know that someone actually cares."  
"You bet I care! And if I ever meet either of the men who did that to you..." Steve's voice trailed off into a low growl.  
Clint grinned tiredly. "There was a reason I didn't give you their names."  
Steve tossed him a lopsided grin. "Clever man." There was a comfortable silence between them for a few seconds and then Steve said gently, "You look exhausted. Why don't you get some sleep?"  
Hawkeye shook his head firmly. "Uh-uh. Sleep isn't gonna come tonight, Steve."  
"Clint, we both know you need it. You can have one of the sleeping pills that Bruce gave me - I have trouble sleeping sometimes and they actually help. But you've got to rest, or you'll end up sick."  
Reluctantly, unable to resist the pleading in the Captain's eyes, Hawkeye agreed. Steve pulled him to his feet, and, as he pressed a glass of water and the pill into his hand, he murmured, "Jus' remember, Clint, you're a part of a family now, and we'll always need you."  
Clint squeezed Steve's shoulder hard and replied quietly, "Thank you, Steve, for everything." Ten minutes later, he was stretched out across his bed, sound asleep, not even having bothered to undress.  
Steve, tears still burning hot behind his eyes, sat down at the table and swiftly drew an expert sketch of the Avengers, arms around each other, Clint in the middle. Below it, in precise handwriting, he wrote, "We may not related by blood, but we're family, and we need you desperately." Slipping silently into Clint's room, he smiled down at the sleeping figure and laid the picture on his nightstand before gently pulling a blanket over the archer.  
When Clint woke the next morning, he was surprised to find himself covered in a blanket, but even more surprised to find the drawing beside him. He gazed at the picture for several long moments, a smile slowly creasing the corners of his mouth.  
Nothing was ever said about the picture, but two days later, when Steve happened to walk by Clint's room, he noticed his drawing, now displayed in an expensive frame, hanging over Clint's bed.  
And Steve Rogers smiled to know that Clint Barton had finally found his family.


End file.
